I Owe You One(65)

“I don’t usually,” says Seb. “And it isn’t. This is an exception. What are you doing here?”

“Drinking,” I say.

“Ah.”

“Drowning my sorrows. We have cocktails,” I add, brandishing my glass at him. “You can have one if you like. Only you have to be in our party. D’you want to come to it as my guest? I wouldn’t if I were you. It’s full of estate agents.”

Distantly, I’m aware that I’m not speaking appropriately. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Sense has taken a back seat for now. Alcohol is in charge of talking. And Alcohol says, “Woo! Anything goes!”

“Estate agents, huh?” says Seb, his mouth twitching.

“And manufactured-diamond importers,” I say, enunciating carefully. “Actually only one of those. He’s my brother. Who was that you were with?” I add. “Was it your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” he says after a pause. “Her name’s—”

“I know her name,” I interrupt triumphantly. “I overheard it in the coffee shop. It’s … Wait …” I pause, closing my eyes for a few seconds, letting the music thump through me. “Whiny.”

OK, that came out wrong.

“Not Whiny,” I say after a moment’s thought. “It’s something else.”

“Briony,” corrects Seb, his mouth twitching again.

“Briony.” I nod about fifteen times. “Yes. Sorry. Briony.” I think for a moment, then add, “You could call her Shouty.”

“What?” Seb stares at me.

“I saw her having a go at you earlier.” I wrinkle my nose. “She looked like …” Suddenly it comes to me. “Yes! She looked like a mean newsreader.” I put on an exaggerated TV voice. “ ‘Hello. This is the Mean News. You’re all rubbish and I despise you.’ ” I come to a finish and blink at him. “Sorry,” I add, as Seb opens his mouth. “I’m very sorry. That’s awful. I take it back. I shouldn’t be rude about your girlfriend. She’s probably really nice.”

“No,” says Seb evenly. “You shouldn’t be rude about my girlfriend.”

I swig my drink thoughtfully, then beckon him to lean closer and whisper confidingly in his ear, “She’s not nice, though, is she?”

“Are we really going to start assessing each other’s love choices?” says Seb tightly. “Is that a game you really want to play?”

“Why not?” I shoot back.

“Fine!” Seb’s voice rises with heat. “At least I didn’t harness my heart to a bloody con man. At least I’m not a gullible mug, making excuses for a total dickhead because I had a crush on him at school.”

“What?” I gasp so forcefully, I nearly totter over. “How did you know that?”

“You said you’ve known him since you were ten,” says Seb, shrugging. “Lucky guess.”

I feel a spike of resentment. I should never have given away even a morsel of information to this guy. I take a sip of cocktail, swill it round my mouth, and swallow it. Then I glare at him with all the venom I can muster.

“I thought you were polite,” I say in icy tones. “I was clearly misinformed.”

“I can be polite.” Now he looks amused. “When I want to be.”

“And by the way, I’m not gullible, I’m trusting.” I wave my glass vigorously at him for emphasis, spilling a few drops. “Trusting.”

“D’you want to dance?” His words take me by surprise, and I stare at him blankly, wondering if I heard right.

“Dance?” I echo at last. “You mean … dance?”

“I like dancing. D’you want to dance?”

“With you?” I peer at him.

“Yes,” he says, with elaborate patience. “With me.”

“Oh.” I take another sip, thinking about it. “No. I don’t.”

That’ll teach him.

Although, actually, I like dancing too. And this relentless thumping beat is kind of infectious.

“You don’t,” says Seb after a pause.

“No,” I say, a little defiantly. “I don’t.”

He’s taller than me and as I gaze up at him, the lights seem to halo round his head. His hair is shiny and his cheekbones are gleaming and his eyes are locked on mine in a way that’s kind of disconcerting.

I tell myself to look away, but the truth is, I don’t want to look away. I want to be drawn into his gaze.

Which is dumb. And wrong. He belongs to another woman, I remind myself sternly. He likes whiny, shouty, newsreadery-type women.

“But you owe me one,” he says, and pulls the coffee sleeve out of his jacket pocket. He flicks it thoughtfully a couple of times, then proffers it. “See?”

I glance dismissively at my own writing. “That doesn’t say anything about dancing.”

“Maybe dancing is what I want.” His eyes are still fixed on mine. “Maybe it’s all I want.”

“That’s all you want.” I force a skeptical tone. “A dance.”

The music is thudding through my bones. My blood is pulsing. My feet are twitching. The more we talk about dancing, the more I want to dance.